


Synthetic XI: ROSARY

by Kitty Fisher (kittyfisher)



Series: Synthetic [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Past Abuse, Rape, Sadism, Violence, church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyfisher/pseuds/Kitty%20Fisher
Summary: The clock stops ticking. Dean is delivered to the priest...





	

Synthetic XI: ROSARY  
Kitty Fisher

 

The truck’s moving almost before Dean’s inside. Bracing one knee on the dash, he slams the passenger door shut and slouches into the seat, turning to stare coolly at his father.

“You gonna kill us both before we get there?”

“No.”

Okay. Dean feels a slight tendril of anger work its way into his mind, and he pushes it away. There’ll be time enough for that later. Besides, his dad has enough anger for them both. Turning away, Dean stares out into the street and ignores him. With a stomach-flip he thinks back to Sam, standing at the door as the truck pulled away. Sam, who doesn’t deserve any of this. Certainly not the contempt that their father leveled at him. At them both. Dean sighs, because some of that contempt is deserved. Hell, he’d despise himself if he had a moment to think about it.

“I wouldn’t have set this up if there was any other way.”

John Winchester’s words startle him. He slides deeper into the seat and stares moodily through the windshield. “Sure. Whatever.” 

“Come on, I’m trying to apologize here!”

“What for? Fucking up and getting into this mess to begin with?”

“You –” But John bites his lip and the words are gone. Instead he takes a deep breath. “Son, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, and I can’t say I like it – any of the shit you’re playing with – but hell, I’m apologizing for needing to ask this of you.”

Dean shrugs, feeling the T-shirt shift tight and snug across his shoulders. Black T, faded jeans, boots – no underwear: rent boy chic. Leaning forward he clicks the CD on. And curls his lip when Johnny Cash starts singing.

“Dean!”

“What?” He sits back, purposely blank-faced. “Oh, yeah. Hey, it’s no biggie, Dad. Like you said – nothing I haven’t done before.”

“It was always necessary.”

Man… Dean turns his face away, staring at a girl walking by where they’re stopped at a red light. She’s blonde, pretty, probably about sixteen years old – probably thinks she’s about as grown up and knowing as J-Lo. Right. She’s cute, apple pie through and through, and about as disposable as a Kleenex. Christ, but sometimes he feels so goddamned old.

“Always, Dad?”

He doesn’t mean to weight the word, but he can almost feel his father wince. “Yeah. I’m not saying it was right – just that it kept us alive.”

There, in a few words, was the whole reason Dean never complained. Never had. Not even when he was standing at attention for hours, learning obedience. Learning not to make mistakes. Learning to be good. A good son. Which was way too many lies stacked one on another. He wants to ask _That first time, when you fucked me – was that a necessity?_ , but he can’t quite voice the words. Can’t quite dredge them from the bitterness that surrounds them, even though he can feel Sam’s eyes boring into his skull, because Sam, sure as anything, wouldn’t be a coward about this. But Dean knows he is.

There’s refuge in a hard stare and a layer of amusement over scorn. “Hey, so that’s an apology, Dad? Thanks.”

“Dean.”

At the sharp tone, Dean’s head snaps around, and the anger’s finally just _there_. “What?”

John blinks, takes a breath. “Okay. Whatever you think, I mean it.” The stern profile is set, though a muscle ticking away under his stubble-dark jaw gives more away. Suddenly, the truck jerks to a standstill. “We’re here.” 

Dry-mouthed, Dean straightens up, uncurling as he glances out at a tall, austere house next to a red-brick church, seeing steps leading up to an iron gate and a narrow path that splits, one way leading to the house, the other to the church’s huge double doors. He should be thinking about what’ll happen soon, be preparing himself, but that’s impossible when his mind is ripping through the whole concept of his father apologizing. He swallows, hating that he feels close to dismay. “Why? After everything, why now?”

John keeps the engine running and, with both hands loose on the wheel, turns. “Because.”

Oh, sure. Anger’s like a flare. “Because of Sam. Fuck, you think I’m with him just to spite you?”

Which makes John wince visibly. “No. But, damn it, Dean – you and Sam...”

“Don’t.” Shaking his head, Dean simply stares in disbelief, and then snatches at the handle, pushing the door open wide. “Just don’t.” And he steps down onto the sidewalk.

“Dean!”

With bright sunlight blinding his eyes, Dean pauses. Then with a harsh intake of breath he turns back. “Yeah?”

“Call me when it’s over. I’ll take you back to the motel.”

With a nod, Dean makes himself accept the offer. One hand on the door, he hesitates. “So, how long has he got me for?”

“Until midnight, tomorrow.”

Thirty-four hours. He could do that. One last time. Dean looks at his father and lifts his chin. “Sure. I’ll call you. And – you won’t owe him anything after this?”

“Not a thing.”

“And I won’t owe you anything either.” It’s not a question, and he doesn’t wait for a reply.

Dean steps away, and smoothly closes the passenger door. Through the glass, he meets his father’s narrowed eyes, seeing shadows under the hard stare. There’s a desperation he hasn’t seen before. Something close to obsession-induced madness. And that’s a clarity he really doesn’t want. Because he gave himself up so willingly to everything and anything that was asked of him. And giving up his will for the good of the family - let alone the whole goddamned world - was one thing, but giving it up for something insane? That was just dumb.

He could hate himself so easily. Hate himself more than he already does. With a lurch that makes him take a step back, he realizes that what he wants is not his father, not his _family_ , but the family that is Sam. And he can’t go to him, not now, not when there’s a priest to see and a father to exonerate. Expiation through sex and submission. Sure. Whatever.

Turning away, he walks to the steps, and takes them two at a time. Pushing open the wide gate, he glances back, but the truck has already gone.

:::

An old woman, dressed in dark, conservative clothing and flat shoes that make no sound on the polished wood floor, lets him in. With hardly a word, and without meeting his eyes, she leads him to a high-ceilinged room, and leaves him there. There’s almost no furniture, just seven heavy wooden chairs lined up in a careful row. The walls are painted a plain, hard white that almost glows in the afternoon sunshine. No photos, no paintings decorate the starkness, only a single crucifix, and he walks to it, staring at the bloody body, remembering it from his childhood. Remembering it as the focus for hours of meditation, of contemplating his sins, and how his sins had brought about such suffering. 

He’d believed it then, all of it. Now he doesn’t believe at all, not in any good and kind God, only in the man hanging so submissively from the wood.

Footsteps startle him, and he turns towards the door, wiping clammy palms down his jeans. With a sweep, the door opens wide and, man, the priest is still all about the dramatic. The years haven’t changed Father David: tall, slim, with broad shoulders, dressed in a cassock that falls in long, perfect lines about his strong, straight body, he stares imperiously across at Dean, still handsome, a little older, with more lines and shadows, but the pale skin is still tight around the sharp jaw, and the pale blue eyes are just as knowing, just as cold.

“Dean Winchester.”

Oh, yeah, the voice is still higher pitched than you’d expect. Still with the Boston accent and old-money superiority. Dean’s careful not to meet his eyes. Whatever else he’s feeling right now, self-preservation is still high on his list of priorities.

“Yes, sir.”

“All grown up. Well, well…”

Dean keeps still as the priest approaches, the hem of inky-black skirts trailing back and forth over mirror-shined toe-caps as he steps slowly around Dean’s still figure.

“Your father didn’t lie; you are a fine looking specimen.” He comes around to Dean’s left shoulder and pauses. Dean ignores the intense scrutiny that’s raking his face, somehow keeping his expression calm, his eyes half-drowsy in an imitation of perfect calm. “Which, considering the sins that layer your soul, is a truly wondrous thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, I do hope time hasn’t eroded your training, young man.”

With a slight nod, Dean lets the priest know he understands. Silence unless speech is requested. No problem. He doesn’t want to talk, or do anything other than react to each moment.

A finger traces a line along his jaw. “Your father’s bargain was fair. Even if you are a little old for my tastes.” The touch scrapes down Dean’s throat, over the slight bump of his Adam’s apple, pausing at the neck of his T-shirt. He flicks a glance at the priest’s face, sees the smile that pulls at the thin mouth, and flinches slightly as the hand slides over every rib, down to his stomach, pressing hard, just under his ribcage. “Nice and tight. How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven, sir.”

“And I last had charge of you, what, thirteen years ago?”

“Sir.” He nods.

“Then it is certainly time that you came to me again.” The hand smoothes down, to cup Dean’s groin, taking a handful of denim and flesh, squeezing it until sweat prickles on Dean’s top lip, while the pale eyes measure every nuance of reaction. “Ah, yes…good. Very good.”

Suddenly, he steps away, leaving Dean sucking in air, swaying slightly.

“Up the stairs. There’s a bathroom with everything ready. Prepare yourself. Remember that I’ll need you clean, inside and out.” He smiles a tight, knowing smile as Dean blinks. “When you’re done, come back downstairs – there’s a door that leads to the basement. Just the same as it did in my old house, which I’m sure you remember very clearly. Don’t you?”

Dean nods. Wonders at the nausea that’s twisting under his ribs. 

“Mrs O’Dowd is leaving to see her sister for a few days, and I must wish her a safe journey. You have half an hour. Any longer and I’ll come to find you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” A nod, then he opens the door and walks away.

Alone in the wide, empty room, Dean stares after him. He counts footsteps. Listens to them fade. Only then does he relax – and head off to obey his orders.

He walks up the stairs, and with every step, denim pulls tight across welted skin. Climbing slowly, he remembers Sam’s face, Sam’s touch, the way his lips had soothed over every single mark, breath like fire against his skin. The memory makes him shiver. And realize how unsettled he really is. This should be no different from any other time. But it is. The difference is disconcerting. Unsettling in a way he really doesn’t want to think about, or to cope with.

Maybe he’s getting old.

Or maybe, despite the reassurance of having Sam’s mark on his skin, it’s too much like having Sam here with him. Which he thought would be a good thing, but now? Hell, there’s a skill to what he’s doing. A skill in keeping himself distanced enough to deal with everything that happens, to never letting it take over. He shouldn’t think about Sam. Not about anything other than the priest and the reality of every single moment. Shit, it’s bad enough that his father tossed him that apology, which is something that keeps slipping back into his head and freaking him out, but to be thinking about Sam through this as well?

Dean pushes into the bathroom, leaning back against the door as it closes, tilting his head back, feeling the lock-click as a vibration up his spine. For a long moment he closes his eyes, lets the ache ripple through him, and lets the reality of Sam wrap around him. Then he pushes the comfort away. The marks aren’t going to wash off, but he’ll simply have to separate what’s happening to him here, from everything else. Hide Sam, and everything he represents, away into a secret part of his head.

Which is a plan. Nodding to himself, he straightens and, brisk and all business, starts to strip.

There’s an enema kit. He curls his lip at it, but does what the priest wants. Enema once, then again, being ruthless with himself to be certain, even though it’s been a while since he ate anything of any substance. Apart from cock, and Sam’s sure does have substance. Which makes him grin, all through the shower, all through toweling off and right up to the long, careful shave that leaves his face smooth, silky, and ridiculously young.

With an assessing stare, he looks at himself. No wonder he prefers stubble. Not a lot, just enough to give him an edge, making him look older, wiser, so the surface matches the insides. Not the baby-faced kid he was for so long, but the bad boy; Marlon Brando with a salt-loaded shotgun. Yeah, they eat it up. All it takes is a look and a smile - that smile, the one perfected over the years, honed on girls and women and men of all ages - and man, he’s in. He aims it at himself. Then turns it off, fast.

Somber. Repentant. Yes, that’s better. Brushing his hair forward erases a few more years. Sweet sixteen and never been kissed. Sure.

With a snort, he stops the inspection and, finding a disposable toothbrush, cleans his teeth, and gargles. Checks his nails and, finally, with great care, fingers lube around and into his asshole. Not too much, but enough. Just in case Father David forgets. In the heat of the moment, of course.

Even though there are fading marks, like faint shadows, scattered over his arms and torso from the cop’s attentions, mostly he’s fine. Which is just as well. 

Hands washed and dried, he steps back and checks himself. Pretty enough, nice sleek muscles, not too much body hair, with skin tanned an even gold, apart from his backside – which is red welts on white skin and, goddamn it, will almost certainly be blue soon enough. Patriotic? Dean flicks an ironic salute at his mirror-self.

One last look. No jewelry; his talisman, ring and bracelets are safe, back at the motel. Nodding to himself, he steps away from the mirror and folds his clothes, money tucked in a deep pocket. The last thing he does is glance at his cell, and his heart speeds up as he thumbs opens the text. One line:

I’ll be waiting xS

Dean winces, and then holds the phone tight in his hand. Yeah, he thinks, I’ll be waiting too – to come home.

Home. Sam. Maybe the dictionary needs re-writing.

Calmly, he picks up the pile of belongings in one hand, then, dropping his cell into a boot, tucks his socks in after it. Standing up, he turns, bare feet squeaking on the cold tile floor. At the door he looks back, making sure it’s all neat and tidy, with hardly a sign he was there, all the water he spilled is wiped away, the wet towels are in the laundry basket and the trash is sealed up. Distantly, he wonders how many others have been here, cleansing their bodies, their blood rushing faster through anticipation. Well, it won’t be him again. Which is enough of a promise – and one he intends to keep.

Lightheaded, he steps out into the hall, closing the door quietly before heading down, taking each step slowly. At the foot of the stairs, he hesitates for a second, and then simply leaves his clothes in a neat pile on the floor, boots neatly lined up, all of it tucked behind where the last banister curls back on itself, the finial carved in the shape of a perfect rose.

The house is very silent. He stands, listening, then shivers just the once before looking around. There are five doors. All of them are almost double width – except for one. He tries that first. The handle is brass, highly polished and slippery as he twists it open, reaching up to flick on the light.

A narrow stairwell, shadowed at its foot. Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he starts walking. It gets cooler as he descends the stairs. Calm, serene, confident. He can do it. Purposely, he makes himself relax, loosening the tightness that’s clutching at his ribs as he steps into shadows. At the bottom of the stairs he pauses, blinks until his eyes adjust and he can see he’s standing in a small ante-chamber. With one door. He walks across thick carpet and touches it. It immediately moves, and with a push it opens, swinging back, perfectly weighted. Fumbling his hand on the wall, he finds a switch, and at his touch, dim light floods a long hallway. One hung on all sides with paintings. He walks along, slowly, looking at each one. Saints in torment. Crucifixions heavy with gore and agony. At one he pauses. The Christ is arching away from the wooden cross, fingers like claws, his loin-cloth twisted in a pretty good imitation of a hard-on. Right. Nothing like being tortured to get you off.

He runs a finger over the agonized body. Taps it gently, and then moves on.

To another door. This one is heavier, with a handle in the shape of a crescent moon. It turns under his hand and he feels the temperature drop yet again as it swings back.

No more corridor. Just a chapel.

And Father David, robed as if for mass, waiting by a wide, marble altar that stands in the center of the room. Both hands are stretched at his sides in welcome, and candlelight from the hundreds of sconces around the walls shimmers across his vestments. Dark purple silk, and a stole draped around his neck decorated with symbols that nag at Dean’s memory, though he catches only a glimpse before blinking and looking down.

“My child, enter. Show your humility.”

_Sure, anything you want, asshole_. Carefully closing the door, Dean sinks to his knees, perfectly humbled. Moving onto all fours, the flagstones smooth under his palms and knees, he crawls to Father David’s feet, where, head down, elegantly abject, he waits.

If his skin crawls, it’s only because he’s doing something he wants, but not for the right man. With a flash of memory he’s back in that grungy motel room with a whore, bored out of her mind, whipping his back. He’d knelt for her, as a way of scratching an itch. But then Sam had walked in, and after that, he’d knelt for Sam because his life suddenly meant something.

And here he is again – running through an imitation of what he really wants. While the one person he would willingly crawl for is waiting for him to come back - and probably tearing his hair out.

“Child, prostrate yourself.”

_Child_. Oh, man. He lowers himself to the floor, arms outstretched, his face turned to the right, his cheek pressed tight to the roughness of stone. How many hours had he lain like this, all those years ago? Too many, for certain. Even the slow footsteps circling him feel the same. Leather soles on hard flooring. A toe-cap nudges his side.

“Who marked you? Speak.”

Ah. He can’t say _my brother_ , not because it’s wrong, but because he really doesn’t want Sam’s name to be spoken here. Instead he licks his lower lip. “A client, sir.”

“Your father really should have told me you’d already be damaged.” He sounds irritated, and Dean’s certain it has nothing to do with having to go easier with any punishment. More that Father David prefers a blank canvas on which to work – and Dean closes his eyes, viciously pleased that Sam’s mark is there.

There’s even a tiny fragment of a moment in which he thinks this might mean the deal’s off.

Which is only wishful thinking. Reality is a hand scraping over the welts, nails digging into the delineated marks.

“No skill.” There’s disgust thick in Father David’s voice. Dean swallows a grin. Though it’s wiped away as fingers push between his ass-cheeks and into his body, exploring deep until he grunts, face scraping on the floor as he’s rammed forward.

“At least you can do something right.” 

Which presumably means he’s clean enough. Gee, thanks.

Weirdly, he gets a picture of how fucked-up it is, to be lying on the floor, letting an almost stranger treat him like some object. Lying still, waiting, just _being_ so the priest can work out some fantasy, some kink that he can’t resolve either in the confessional or with his God.

There’s nothing godly here. He’d never though of the priest as perverse before, but he is. Fucked up pervert priest – even if he is fighting the goddamned good fight against demons.

The fingers slide from his ass. Footsteps sound, walking away, then back again.

“My child, do you remember how to pray?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The Litany of Humility…”

Dean climbs up onto his knees, palms resting on his thighs, sitting back on his ankles, with his eyes downcast while the priest lifts his robes, cotton and silk raising to bare naked flesh and, incongruously, black socks under loafers.

A step brings the priest’s groin close. Dean lifts up, kneeling with his thighs braced. There’s only a flicker of arousal thickening the fat slug of flesh. It’s just as he remembers, ugly, with a foreskin like a windsock. Nudging up underneath it with his nose, Dean breathes in, scenting sweat and musk, letting his mouth skim upwards, teasing the dangling head, flicking his tongue at the curl of skin that almost hides the wide slit, flicking, then sliding forward and sucking just the tip into his mouth and pushing his tongue forward.

Which makes it leap. Okay… Dean pushes back with his lips, stripping the foreskin away, exposing the thickening head, licking hard over the soft skin until a hand curls around his head and impatiently pushes him down. The cock grows more in his mouth. Thick and long, veined and gnarled as it uncoils, pressing at his palate, at his throat, sliding inside as Dean breathes, accepts it. All the way.

The heavy robes are held up, over him, one hand there, the other flexing its fingers against his scalp. He retches slightly as the angle changes, but then he finds a rhythm of sorts, and breathes just fine.

“Child… Pray with me…”

With language a distant reality, Dean can only make the sound of the word, deep in his chest.

“From the desire of being esteemed –”

_Deliver me, oh, Lord._ The sound, trapped in his throat, vibrates up through the priest’s cock.

“From the desire of being loved –”

_Deliver me, oh, Lord._ Man, he remembers the hours of learning this, repeating it again and again until his childish self believed it, all the way.

“From the desire of being preferred to others –”

_Deliver me, oh, Lord._ Oh, yeah. Not that he ever really wanted this sort of preference.

“From the fear of being humiliated –”

_Deliver me, oh, Lord._ Dean chokes again as the cock ramrods into his throat. Man, the priest’s getting off on this. The words, the sentiment, the fucking _cock-sucking_ , whatever, but Dean’s sweating, fighting to breathe, to keep up the rhythm that gives him a chance of being anything other than a hole that’s choking to death.

“From the fear of suffering rebukes –”

_Deliver me, oh, Lord._ Though he can’t quite voice it, not even internally. The hand around his head shoves him, hard, grinds him down, mouth rubbing raw on rough pubic hair, nose pressed to a hard gut.

“Again - From the fear of suffering rebukes –”

_Deliver me, oh, Lord._ This time he manages it, the words nothing more than a gagging vibration that makes the priest groan.

“From the fear of being wronged –”

The robes fall over his head, and in stifling darkness he’s pushed onto his heels as the priest steps forward, cock pressed straight down, both hands wrapping around Dean’s skull, holding it through layers of cloth as he fucks, hard, hips bucking, pumping as he cries out and Dean’s suddenly choking on spunk as it shoots into his throat, backing up into his mouth, and into his nose until he’s breathing fluid, choking on its thickness.

And there’s no air at all.

Falling. Vomit, acrid in his mouth. A fragment of darkness… then he’s back, heaving for breath, shivering, faintly hearing Sam’s voice in his head. He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Either he’s finally cracked up completely or… He listens again, every cell reaching out, trying to understand. But, nothing. Which is what he wants, and he almost sags in relief. That Sam might ‘see’ this? Christ, that freaks him out more than any goddamned prayer could ever do – even one that was designed to make him despise himself.

“Come here.”

Somehow he pulls himself together. It takes an effort, but he looks across and sees Father David, once again fully robed, standing by the altar. There’s a bowl by his side, and Dean crawls to him, wondering at the unsteadiness in his arms and thighs as he kneels, knees wide apart, hands behind his back. A cloth gets wiped over his mouth, tasting of disinfectant. 

“You were more skilled as a youth. And far less arrogant.” There’s such disdain wrapped around the perfect vowels. Dean breathes evenly, while trying to keep his internal distance. “Your father was right to send you to me, I can cleanse so much of that from you, child. There is no better way to purification than through suffering, you know that.”

Does he? Maybe he does. There’s certainly a part of him that’s always craved it.

“Come here.”

A shuffle of knees and Dean’s right at Father David’s feet. He stares down, focusing on the intertwined pattern of roses, their thorn-heavy stems twisting through and around each other, white thread on fine white cotton, that’s stitched around the hem of the priest’s alb. The workmanship is beautiful, and he follows the pattern, back and forth, until finally his breath evens out and he waits, quite still.

“There is mercy in the Lord’s love. You know this.” Dean risks a nod. “Your skin will show his redemption – a distant mirror of the suffering Jesus submitted to. Kneel before the altar and raise your arms.”

With a swirl of robes Father David moves away, giving Dean room to crawl to the low, monolithic slab of marble. There’s a circular pattern incised into its fascia, one that’s almost familiar, but Dean can only glance at it before he kneels up, lifting his arms, resting them on the flat surface, the altar’s edge sharp and hard as it pushes into his armpits. The marble is very cold. He flinches slightly as he leans into it and clasps his hands. Candles flicker as the priest moves into Dean’s line of sight, and stands looking down at him.

There’s a rosary in his hand, and he twists the beads around Dean’s wrists. It’s so familiar, this binding. Dark, carved beads pressed lightly into his skin, the crucifix dangling down, swinging against his forearms until it stills, leaving him eye to eye with the suffering god.

He considers winking. Hey, shared experience, and all that. Not that he’s been nailed to anything, and really, sincerely, hopes he won’t ever be. But he knows what’s coming. As a child he was forced to meditate on the instrument of Christ’s flagellation, complete with the worst excesses of a sadistic imagination to conjure the image for him. As a child he’d given thanks many times that it was only a switch he was being beaten with, and not a lead-weighted multi-stranded flogger. The switch was - and still would be - quite enough.

With a rustle of robes, and the soft scuff of leather soles, Father David stands at his side. “Turn your head to face me.”

Yeah. There’s a mound under the robes that’s unmistakably a hard-on. Fuck, but all this was easier before Viagra. Dean swallows the snort of amusement and stares instead at the whip in the long, thick-fingered hand. Not a switch, but a cat. Maybe ten strands of soft leather, each one knotted at the tip. It won’t rip him apart, not unless the priest works really hard – but it’ll hurt like the devil.

“Kiss her, and ask for your sins to be forgiven…”

Leaning to one side, Dean brushes his lips across the leather. It smells of sweat, of animal. The old blood taint is probably only his imagination. He shivers anyway, but speaks the words Father David is waiting to hear. “Credo in remissionem peccatorum…”

“Sed libera nos a malo.”

“Amen.”

One word, like ash on his tongue, and Dean stretches his arms and bends his head down between them, shoulder blades itching as he waits, while words in Latin are murmured over him. “Fiat voluntas Tua…”

And the whip hits.

There’s a shard of thought in which Dean wonders exactly whose will is being done, then he’s hissing with the pain, biting his tongue, keeping as still as he can while the leather strands are whipped hard across his sides, where the muscles are pulled tight by the angle of his arms. With each hit he jerks forward, the marble edge biting into soft skin, only to ease back, panting, as the leather trails slowly, reluctantly, off his skin.

He doesn’t count the strokes. Doesn’t think very much at all, slipping into another space where he can work with sensation as it floods him. There’s a trick to dealing with pain like this, one he learned a long time ago. It is a kind of pleasure. A submergence of self into the wholeness of something else. The hours he’s spent buffered from reality by this state, he really can’t count. Can’t really even think about, not with his mind flooding with chemicals that shift perception and awareness, and he’s light-headed, flying away on thermals of pain. 

Until a deliberate, sharper hit shifts him back. Balanced on the edge of insight, a place where he is himself, but where he’s also something other, he opens his eyes. Tilts his head and stares at his tightly clasped hands, at the whiteness of his knuckles and at the crucifix that jerks back and forth with every breath that opens his lungs, with every whip-stroke that rips through him, making him writhe with a total lack of volition. 

Like a dancer, twisting: strobe-lit by pain.

The whip claws around his chest, finding his nipple, and he cries out then, head snapping back. After that he loses himself again, until a hand touches his shoulder and he gasps, blinking sweat from his eyes.

“Secondum mysterium dolorosum: Flagellatio.”

Yeah, and he can live without the other Sorrowful Mysteries. Though from the tremor that’s shaking the hand against his skin, it’s a different sort of nailing the priest’s interested in.

“Stand up, lean over the altar.”

Locking muscles and sinews to provide some grace, he stands and, wrists still wrapped in the beads, leans forward, feet inching apart as he spreads his legs wide, and lays his torso onto the marble. It cools his face, lets him lie still, while Father David pushes his thighs another fraction apart and stands between them, draping his lifted robes over Dean’s skin, the touch making him arch up, hissing at the discordant pain, soft cotton scoring like a brand over the welts. Not just welts, perhaps. There’s skin lost too, and he wonders how many tiny pieces of him have flicked onto the floor, or are still trapped in the leather knots.

A thick cock-head nudging its way up his ass gives him warning. Dean braces himself, prepares. But, goddamn it, the priest still fucks like a bastard. Hard in, shoving deep, grunting as his hips piston Dean apart, opening him up in ruthless increments, until his body has no choice but to accept the intrusion.

Only then, fully deep, moaning softly, does Father David really get to work: stroking his nails over the marks he’s created, pressing into them, wiping sweat into broken skin, until Dean’s writhing under him, virtually fucking himself on the priest’s cock, whimpering, head pressed down, shoulders knotted, all distance lost, swept away by the callous touch and the wildly erratic shift and pitch of pain.

And then Sam’s voice screams in his head.

It’s like a knife, slicing through everything, clean and sharp: a fine-honed blade loaded with venom. Because, it’s _Sam_. Sam, in Dean’s mind, for fuck’s sake - but…now?

Dean shakes his head and his mouth’s forming the word no, again and again, shouting in his head for Sam to _go away_ , Jesus, not now, not to feel this, or to understand this. Please…

The priest feels the change in him, and slams him hard into the altar, hip-bones bruising, skin sliding in his own sweat as he’s ground down, the tall body pressed over him, teeth biting into muscle, just where it’s close to the bones of his spine. Arching up, Dean feels Sam echo the pain. 

It’s too much. As Sam’s pain and anger howls in his head, the rosary snaps, falls away and Dean’s hands flail, coming down to clutch at the solidity of marble while he’s torn apart by two voices. One desperate, full of anger, resounding like an echo in his head, the other real, breathing profanity and threats of endless punishment into his ear.

A hand shoves against his back and the priest pulls out of him, fast, ruthlessly callous, making Dean cry out. Another half-swallowed sound escapes his lips when he’s pulled from the stone and slammed onto his knees. Glancing up, he sees the wild stare, the hatred, and before he can even mouth the single word, _sorry_ , he’s slapped, hard, the blow rocking his head to one side, blood warm and thick in his mouth, his lip splitting apart even before the second blow.

Head down, he offers submission. Panting, shivering in the aftershock of _Sam in his head, feeling what he’s feeling, for fuck’s sake_ , he kneels, clumsily folding his hands into the small of his back, blinking dazedly as the priest grabs his hair and pulls his head back.

It’s then that he sees it: A flicker of opacity in the pale eyes. Like ink seen through glass, or moonlight on deep water; eerie, blinding, unmistakably demon.

Dean’s thoughts scatter. Through watering eyes he sees the priest - the demon - smile, and Dean finally realizes what’s always been there. Not that he has time to react, for strong, priestly fingers jerk down the angry length of lube-slick cock – just before it’s forced into his mouth. After that, Dean can only pray for breath as he’s face-fucked, hard and long, without any mercy or care, until the world is woven from bright pin-pricks of light on a shifting background, and finally he slides painfully into darkness, driven there with the taste of demon, like salt on his tongue.

:::

He awakes while being ass-fucked into the floor. Not Viagra after all. Which is about all he manages of coherency before Sam’s agony is spiking through his brain, and the pain fires up into a loop, twisting on itself, around and around, each circuit compounding on the last, until finally, Dean realizes the body that was over him has moved away, and the pain is finally easing. Enough at least for him to take a breath, though it shudders like shards of steel in his lungs and up through the raw flesh of his throat.

A foot pushes him over. Blearily, he stares up, at pale, naked skin, a stiff cock, up past bony ribs to the smiling face.

“Welcome back, child.”

“Fuck you…”

The priest inhales air like he’s scenting flowers. “So much attitude. I’ve loved having you – in so many ways, both now and then. But particularly then. You were such an obedient little slut.”

“Right.” Dean coughs on the sarcasm. “Did I have any choice?”

“Of course. Though choosing not to obey me would, of course, have been detrimental to your dear father. Something you knew then and which always kept you in line. How is that someone who abused you so badly can have such loyalty?”

“He’s my father.”

“Is that meant to make everything he did to you all right?”

“He didn’t have –” But Dean coughs, other words lost as he almost chokes, and he rocks onto his side in an effort to find air.

A hand slides under his head, lifts him slightly as a cup is pressed to his lips. “Drink.”

Man, he so wants to spit in the priest’s face, in the _demon’s_ face, but he’s so dry. Reaching up he touches the thin china, takes a gulp, then again, the water bitterly cold, rasping over his teeth, setting them on edge before slipping down to soothe his throat. It gives him strength to prop an arm under himself, to push the priest’s supporting hand away.

“Better now?” Such perfect solicitude.

“Sure. Let me go.”

“Oh, the deal has many hours left to run.”

Dean bites his tongue. He can’t ask. But he has to. “Does my father know?”

“About me?”

“Yeah.”

“If I said yes, would you believe me?” A hand slides over Dean’s sweat-matted hair, trailing down to stroke his neck, just where the bones push closest to skin.

Dean twists away. “Then get on with it. Even you can’t keep it up forever.”

“This isn’t forever. And you inspire me – so much hatred, so much twisted need. It’s very invigorating.” He feeds Dean more water, and Dean accepts it, swallowing all that he can. “I’m wondering how long it’ll take that little brother of yours to find you.”

“What!” Dean jerks back, water splashing down his chest.

“Oh, I heard him, all shocked and angry in your thoughts. So much caring and empathy. After that, couldn’t you guess that I’d want him too?”

“No. Don’t –”

“Don’t what? Hurt him? How sweet. But there’s no point, not when Sammy reacts so delightfully to your pain. Oh, you think I didn’t feel that? So sweet, little brother keying in to big brother’s pain. It’s fascinating, and something I wasn’t expecting. I do hope he doesn’t crash the car before he gets here. Though, that in itself is a challenge…”

He stands up, walks away.

“Look, I’ll do anything you want.” Dean’s begging, climbing off the floor, making it to his knees, stumbling to his feet, swaying there, fighting the pain that’s close to sending him tumbling back to the flagstones. “Come on, you bastard – anything!”

“I know. But you will anyway.” He turns. “Kneel.”

And Dean does, his knees slamming hard onto stone as his hands snap together behind his back – none of it his own doing. “No!”

“Hush.” Lazy, controlled, the demon returns. With a deft move he slips a ball-gag into Dean’s panting mouth, strapping it behind his head, cinching it so tight that the only sounds Dean can make are soft, animalistic mewls. “And I think you need to show a little enthusiasm, pretty boy.”

A finger strokes a line of fire along Dean’s cock, and he’s instantly hard, hips jerking forward as the touch slips away.

“Oh, very lovely.” Kneeling down, the demon stares into Dean’s eyes. Its own are pale, hungry, flickering glassily from black to gray. “Come for me. Then maybe we can negotiate.”

It’s hopeless. Dean knows that there won’t be any negotiation. But despite that, he can’t give up the faint thread of hope. Besides, however much he fights, the demon has control of this. The hand could be wrapped in sandpaper and be stripping flesh in layers, and he’d still feel arousal. There’s enough strength in him to keep his mind apart, to only let the need suffuse his body. That alone is vile enough, and panic swirls darkly through his mind.

A panic that makes the demon moan softly. He - it - leans in, and kisses Dean’s wide-stretched lips, tongue like an eel, sliding around the leather straps that hold the gag in place, pushing past the ball, fucking into Dean’s mouth, cold and thick and ugly in a way that makes Dean’s gut heave but pumps blood into his cock until he’s shuddering, sweat streaming from his skin as he comes, hard, the spunk ripped from him, tearing a path upwards to spatter in gouts on the demon’s pale skin.

Shame coats him like oil. Bitterly, he sways, hating himself with a perfection that’s close to being holy. The tongue slides from his mouth, and the hand jerks one last time at his cock, a nail digging in just above his balls, until he whimpers pathetically, close to blacking out.

Swaying, he’d fall, but arms slide around him, pick him up as if he weighs nothing, and the priest’s face smiles paternally as he carries Dean to the altar, and lays him there, carefully, as if Dean’s something fragile, not something already almost broken.

The demon leans over him, close to his face, breath drifting over Dean’s cheek and along his jaw, pausing there before mouthing down his neck to bite, quite gently, into the skin at the base of his throat.

“Pretty,” he whispers, “do you think he’ll come for you now? And if he does, do you think he’ll care enough to rescue you after I’ve fucked you in front of him, made you beg prettily for the privilege of touching me?”

_He’ll know it’s not me!_ But even the thought it full of doubt.

“When he already knows what perverted pastimes get you hard? I wonder what he'll think.”

Dean shakes his head, threshing it from side to side, but the elegant profile shifts away, grinning. A finger slides down Dean’s belly, traces a delicate circle around the tip of his cock, making it twitch pathetically. Then the priest, the demon clothed in priest’s flesh, laughs, and simply walks away, leaving Dean to sweat, his mind stuttering blindly from one appalled thought to another.

:::

Time slips into a space that has no measure. At some point he slips into a half-state that’s not quite sleep, not quite waking, something formed from exhaustion. Or simply created by the demon’s will. Because true awareness returns with the demon, dressed in cassock and dog-collar, leaning over him. There’s a brief slip-slide of incomprehension, then Dean realizes that he’s being fitted with his own collar, the thick leather already around his neck, the lock rattling as it’s fastened, the key tucked away in some hidden pocket.

The ball-gag’s been removed. There’s no saliva in his mouth, but he snarls at the austere face, Latin a curse as it spits from his tongue, “In nomine Patris et Fillii et–”

But stops abruptly when all that happens is that he’s laughed at.

“Unless you’ve got the good Book and few candles hidden on your really quite delectably naked person - along with a good fifty lines of beautifully mellifluous Latin - you may as well just save your breath. I’ve lived as a priest for almost longer than you’ve been alive. The words alone? How can they hurt me?”

If he could say the whole rite. If he could say it without the demon stopping him, then maybe. But he isn’t strong enough. And right now he even has to scrape up enough bravado to answer the demon back. “Listen, asshole, the right words would make even you go up in smoke.”

“Oh, you think I’m bluffing? Then come on, waste your strength, please…”

Dean almost stutters in frustration. “Okay. Maybe not my words, but you’re not invulnerable!”

A nod indicates assent. “Quite so. But not you, pretty. Now, let’s get moving, shall we?”

Dean twitches as a lead is snapped onto the collar. “What’s this? Walkies?”

“Such a good little dog.” A tug on the leash pulls him off the altar, though he catches himself before he hits the stone floor face first. “Come along.”

There’s a flash of Sam in his head - Sam’s face, sweating, gray-tinged and desperately intent - then just as fast the image is gone, and he’s crawling across the floor, like a bitch at the priest’s heels. If he had the energy he’d snap at them. And his teeth bare into a snarl at the thought, which earns him a cuff that lands him on the floor, though he scrambles back onto his knees fast as he can – being dragged along by the neck isn’t anything like his idea of fun.

He’s led away from the altar and through a narrow doorway to a different flight of stairs. He crawls up them, all the while aiming every thought he can muster at Sam, shouting silently for him not to come here, for him not to take the bait. Dean has no idea if it’ll work. He’s pretty certain his own psychic powers only run to a degree of luck at games of chance, but hell, right now he’ll try anything.

The idea of Sam here, just the possibility of it, is destroying him. It can’t happen. And fuck all the psychic bond shit – if this is what it brings on? It sucks. Which is just about all he can muster of defiance, because the leash is yanked hard, and he stops crawling, glancing up to see another door, one the demon unlocks before pushing it open and continuing through, tugging Dean with him.

Instead of the house he’d expected to see, it’s the church, entered via the priest’s private doorway. Dean tries to see look around, and manages a glimpse of a classic cruciform design, a high arching ceiling and austerely dark pews, before he’s tugged viciously to the front of the altar. Pulled to a halt, he kneels, his back screaming painfully as he straightens.

Black fabric folds beside him, and the demon pets Dean’s head. “Meditate upon your sins, child. I promise not to be far away…”

And then Dean knows, he’s not just bait: he’s a goat, staked out to catch bigger prey. Maybe it wasn’t the original plan, but the demon has caught scent of something that’s making him hungry, and the only reason Dean’s been moved to the church, is to make him easier for Sam, and all Sam’s psychic energy, to find. Exactly what the demon will do with Sam, Dean has no idea. But he knows for certain that the demon can’t succeed.

With every ounce of strength he possesses, Dean waits until the demon begins to wrap the leash around the polished wood of the communion rail. As soon as it glances away, he lashes out. Elbow hard into an eye, the heel of his other hand following behind, snapping the jaw up and back. With a grunt, the demon falls back, blood flooding from its mouth and Dean follows, hands wrapping around the slim throat, almost grinning as he squeezes, fingers white-knuckled as the body thrashes underneath him.

But it’s not enough. Or he’s not strong enough. For the demon slams into his mind.

Desperately, he keeps his muscles locked. Keeps clutching at flesh, even when pain claws at his skull, ripping and twisting until he feels blood flood his nose, sees it splash, bright and thick, onto the demon’s face. He could fight muscle, but this? Sobbing, he knows he’s losing. One by one his fingers weaken, until in a bright spike of agony, he arches back, writhing as he hits the floor, hard.

This time the darkness is solid.

Awareness comes back in patches. He knows he’s being dragged across the floor. Knows intermittently that candles are being lit, that there’s only darkness spilling in through the high, mullioned windows. It takes a while to understand who the _he_ of his thoughts is. But then he understands that he’s Dean Winchester, and that the pain that’s surrounding him is actually his own. With self-awareness comes memory, of Sam in his mind, reading him, _being_ him. That alone jerks him awake, coming completely to consciousness, curled on the floor, the leash tied tightly to the communion rail.

His mouth is sour with old blood. Spitting dryly, he wipes his lips on his shoulder, wincing as the split reopens. Slowly, feeling as if he’ll break apart with any sudden move, he uncurls, amazed and heartened because, apart from the leash, he’s not tied up in any way. Unless that’s part of the demon’s plan too… Skin prickling warily, he reaches up, using the wooden cross-rail to tug himself up until he’s sitting. Leaning against the wood, he stares wearily around.

The church looks unchanged, empty of anyone but himself. No demon. No Sam.

Which can’t be good. The demon could be lying in wait, or Sam could be here already, being treated to the demon’s hospitality. The thought goads him, and he pushes sluggish muscles to work. The knot that keeps him captive is complex, pulled very tight. He picks at it, cursing softly, hating the unsteadiness of his hands and the sweat-slipperiness of his skin, neither of which help. Grunting in frustration, he sits straighter and tries again, finally loosening one loop.

He’s pulling it through when the door to one of the side-chapels slams back on its hinges, and Sam walks through. With the demon’s arm around his neck.

“Look what I found!”

Sam tries to pull away, and they both stumble, before the demon’s strength holds them both up. Dean stares blankly at Sam’s face, seeing the determination that pinches his face, and the horror that washes through him when he finally sees Dean.

“You bastard! What’ve you done to him?” Sam twists, suddenly fighting in the demon’s grip.

“Sam, stop it, I’m fine!”

“Of course he is – Sammy, I’ve only been playing with your pretty brother. What would the point be in getting started before you’re here to appreciate my workmanship?” Sam’s face is dark red, the arm tight around his throat. He stops fighting, standing panting for breath as he’s finally allowed a little air.

“You son of a bitch, leave him alone!” Dean tugs frantically at the leash, somehow pulls another loop free. “Sam!”

“Dean, it’s all right!” Sam squeezes the words out past uneven breaths, and stumbles again as he’s pushed forward.

The demon smiles, its eyes flashing eagerly between the two brothers. “But not for long.” And as Dean watches, Sam’s shirt starts to shred, tearing away in strips, as if ripped by talons, leaving the skin underneath scored with fine lines.

“Don’t you dare hurt him!” Anger is such an easy emotion. Dean lets it flood him as the demon laughs. He works on the knot. It has to undo. It has to.

“Dare? I dare a lot of things, child.” He pushes Sam again, and they walk up the aisle, Sam stumbling, the demon holding him up, controlling every breath he takes, until, about three yards from the communion rail, from where Dean crouches, sweating in pain and fury, he stops. 

“Be still.”

At first Dean thinks the command is meant for him. But it’s Sam who just stops panting, stops fighting to stand quite still, while the demon strokes the rags of cotton from his body.

“Stop it, you bastard! Sam…fight back. Fight its control!”

The demon smiles. “Does this bother you, Dean? Don’t you like me playing with your baby brother?” Its fingers trace delicately over Sam’s flat belly, following the thin red welts upwards to Sam’s broad chest, testing the muscles there with a murmur of appreciation. All the while, its eyes never leave Dean, and their darkness is alight with an unholy fire.

“Please, leave him alone.” Dean pants out the words. He’s almost there, almost free, the knot unraveling in his fingers, only the last part of it still fastened to the rail.

“Why?” The priest’s mouth slides along Sam’s shoulder, up to his neck where he licks, and breathes in deeply. “With such sweet temptation, right here for the taking.”

Dean wants to offer himself, willingly, like he did with the cops, but what works with humans isn’t worth anything here. What can willingness mean to a creature that can take anything, provoke any response? Except, it had loved having Dean, when Dean thought he was doing everything to save his father. Sacrifice. Maybe that was like demonic catnip. “Come on, let him go and I’ll do anything you want. Anything at all…”

“Nice try – and if you were still eleven it might even work. But you’re not!”

“Please –”

“You’re boring me. I can do anything I want – nothing you can say or do will make any difference. You simply don’t matter, boy. You’re a toy, something to be used. Just like your brother - watch.” Its hand slides down into Sam’s pants, and Dean can see the instant Sam’s cock hardens – and the horror that reflects in Sam’s eyes. 

But the leash is suddenly free in his hand, he hides it quickly, looking up, talking urgently. “Sam, think of something else. Don’t focus on him, you can break out of whatever crap he’s spun in your head. Do it.”

He’s not sure if it’ll work, but almost immediately, Sam’s eyes roll back in his head. Panting, Dean wipes a hand over his face, feels the graininess of dried blood smearing over sweat. There’s a pulse, pounding in his ears, and he counts every heartbeat until the moment Sam, his face twisted in pain, jerks in the demon’s grasp.

Strength. He needs more strength. Blindly, Dean aims every thought he has at Sam, every ounce of love and compassion and passion too, everything he has, and anything that might bolster Sam’s psychic strength and give them a chance.

The demon howls – and in that same instant, Sam turns on the demon, and Dean launches himself forward.

Momentum carries them all to the floor, crashing down, flesh and fabric skidding on the cold, hard tiles. They end jammed against a pew, with Dean hands wrapped crushingly around the demon’s throat and Sam, twisting from underneath him in a tangle of long limbs, clawing his way to his knees, then to his feet, and finally swinging a kick at the demon’s head.

The body underneath Dean jerks into stillness.

He leans over it, his fingers slowly letting go. Sam’s not in his head anymore, and he turns, looks up. “Fuck.”

“What was that?”

“Us. Other than that, no idea.” Dean flexes his hands, winces. “Come on, we don’t have much time. He won’t be out for long.”

“Get him to the font?”

“What?” Dean’s eyes flicker to the side chapel where a huge stone font stands. “Yeah, but what do you bet the water’s not blessed?”

“I can do something about that.” Sam crouches at his side. “Come on. Let’s finish this.”

“Yeah. That sounds good.” Dean puts a hand on the demon’s chest and begins to push himself up, but Sam’s hand slides under his arm, supporting him until he’s standing. Even then the hand stays where it is, just for a moment. “Hey…”

“Yeah. Hey back at you.” Sam touches Dean’s lip, pressing his thumb lightly to where it must be split. Then he steps away, to pick the demon up in a fireman’s lift, grunting as he takes its weight and starts off at a jog. “But we’ll need more than Holy Water.”

“Yeah, I want it destroyed completely. Get praying, brother.”

Dean watches as Sam reaches the font, and leans forward, dunking the dangling head into what water is there. There’s no smoke. Of course. Running on pure adrenaline, Dean staggers to a niche set in the wall, rips a rosary from where it’s looped over the statue’s praying hands, and tosses it to Sam. “Here.”

“Thanks!” Sam slips the body off his shoulders, propping it in place, head still under. He’s panting, sweat dripping down among the marks on his chest.

Dean nods. “You got breath enough to say the words?”

“Sure.” Sam nods, wipes a hand over his mouth and starts to pray. Dean waits just for a second, then pulls himself together and heads to the altar. There are three branched candlesticks, all of them with their candles alight and flickering. Dean picks up one of them, the one with five candles, and another single candle, and walks to where Sam’s blessing the water.

Standing the candlestick on a pew, Dean takes a deep breath and, blowing the single candle out, starts to mark a five pointed star around the font. Completely intent, he startles when Sam reaches for the candle, trying to take over.

“No. Sam. Find a Bible. He said it. Book and candle. I can do this.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah. The water?”

“Steaming nicely…”

“Great. Go get a Bible.”

Glancing up, Dean watches Sam look around, then run to the pulpit, climbing up to tug a huge Bible off its lectern. Right. The marks are almost done, the candle almost rubbed down to its stub. Dean drops it, clambering on all fours to the pew and the five lit candles. Five points, at each one he stands a candle, careful to keep it burning, dripping wax to set it in place.

All the way around. Until he’s kneeling at Sam’s feet. Something else. There has to be something else.  
“Sam, you got a knife?”

“Pocket knife, yes.”

“Give.”

Dean takes it, opens it up and drives the point into the base of his thumb. Blood drips down immediately, and he crawls around the star, marking around it with his blood, strengthening the binding, chanting under his breath as he concentrates, every muscle trembling with effort as he finally meets the dark cherry-stain red of the marks with which he began. Slumping back onto his heels, he looks up. “It won’t hold him long, Sam.”

“You think Hell will miss him?”

“No way. Do it.”

Sam swallows hard, nods. “In nomine –”

Steam’s lifting from the font. Steam, or smoke. And as Sam speaks, the body lurches up and back, water spraying around as it staggers upright, mouth open in fury. It takes two steps, then stops, brought up short by the improvised circle. It stands, mist coiling up from its broken, blistered skin and roars in fury.

“You’re dust, brothers – and when you walk into Hell, you’re mine!”

“You’ve got to get to Hell first – and you know what? I don’t think you’re gonna make it.” Sam grins at Dean’s words, but keeps incanting, the rhythm perfect in its rise and fall, in the sweat it raises on the demon’s skin, the agony that twists its limbs.

“You’re both fools, if you think you can deal with me like this – what about your father!”

“Whatever deal you had with him, dies with you. He’ll be free.”

“Deal?” The demon sways, and then collapses to its knees. It’s laughing, hollowly, as water pools around it, cassock folds clinging to its wasting limbs. “We’ve spent years goading your father on, whispering to him, persuading him that he’s right and that everyone else was wrong. He listened so eagerly to his ‘friends’. Especially to the parts about fucking his little boy. And then, all that poverty? Sure, let the boy help out with that. He likes being fucked. Oh, your father was so weak! So easy to manipulate… But you know what, pretty? All of it was him, we just encouraged him. Think of that. Daddy selling off his son just to make all those years on the road a bit easier. Obsession is such a delicious thing. What he did will last your lifetimes – and nothing you can do will change that!”

Fighting the impulse to strike back at the mockery, Dean turns away, easing down onto a nearby pew, his hands clasped, elbows braced on his knees, staring at the floor. “Maybe not. But at least he’s not anything like you. And he loved me.”

“Did he?” This time the laugh is real, but broken by a gout of black fluid that floods up from the priest’s collapsing chest. “Oh, yes. Of course. That’s what he said. And anyway – how do you know he’s really your father? How many demons has he dealt with? How many does he have to deal with before he becomes just a little bit like them? Or perhaps wholly like them?” It coughs, its chest falling in, words nothing but resonance and the thick choking remnants of life. “Think of that – your father as part demon. Interesting, isn’t it…”

Crushing doubt, Dean clenches his jaw, listening to Sam’s words, to the demon’s last sputtered curses.

When it’s done, there’s nothing but dust and mire on the floor. And Sam takes a step back, before turning and walking to Dean’s side. Dean glances up. Sam’s face is stark, unnaturally pale as he sits down slowly, leaning back, hands loose between his thighs. “Fuck.”

Dean nods. “Yeah.”

They sit together for a long time. Until Dean begins to shiver.

Sam turns. There is so much care written on his face, so much love in his voice and eyes. Dean wonders for a moment if it’s too much for him to accept. That one more drop of sympathy and he’ll break down and cry all over his little brother. Which he can’t do. Really can’t…

But Sam knows, or senses, and he takes a breath, breaking the intensity of the moment, and nodding at the door. “The Impala’s outside. And in a backpack just outside the door I stashed spare clothes, Tylenol, Gatorade – the usual.”

“Mm, Gatorade.”

“Not, ‘Mmm, clothes?’”

Dean snorts. “Yeah, that too.” He keeps quite still as Sam reaches over, his hand skimming Dean’s arm, fingers curling around his bicep, the touch careful, kind, not too overwhelming.

“Man, I though I’d lost you.”

“I’m too pretty to die, Sammy.” The joke falls flat, and Dean shrugs, admitting, “Though maybe not right at the moment.” He rubs his hand over his face again. It doesn’t feel any better than before. He shrugs, suddenly serious. “And I need my stuff from the house.”

“Tell me where it is, and I’ll get it.”

“At the foot of the stairs. There’s a door at the side of the nave. Steps down, then through a chapel, then –”

“I’ll find it. Wait here, I won’t be long.”

Right, as if he’s going anywhere. Wearily, Dean watches Sam’s long legs carry him away. He waves just before disappearing down the steps, leaving it once again very quiet in the church. There’s very little noise, just the occasional drip of water. It’s cold sitting still, and Dean knows that if he stiffens up any more he won’t be walking at all. Groaning softly, he gets to his feet, stumbles slightly, then finds his balance. He makes it as far as the altar when Sam returns, Dean’s belongings tucked under one arm, his boots dangling from his other hand. But instead of calm, Sam’s face is like iron, set hard, bitter with misery.

“What?”

“That’s where you were. What I saw…”

Fuck. “I’m sorry –”

“Don’t!” Sam shivers. “Just don’t, you know, let anyone do that to you again. Dean, even if that motherfucker had been a real priest, I’d have killed him. No question.” He shrugs. “I’m not sane about you, Dean.”

“Well, maybe that makes two of us.” Dean shivers. “At least I’m okay. We both are.”

“ _We_. Us, Dean. What was that? How did you do it? It was crazy enough that I _felt_ you and what you were going through, but that you, what? Gave me focus? Strength? Shit, I can’t even put it into words.”

“Then don’t. It most likely won’t happen again anyway.” Dean shies away from the idea. Any psychic shit belongs to Sam. That’s bad enough, surely.

Sam frowns. “Yeah, but I don’t know if I could’ve broken away like I did without you.”

“But you did. Come on, stop chewing over it, it’s done.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” With a decisive move he puts Dean’s boots and clothes down on the altar, and just moves in close enough to wrap Dean in a hug, and gently kisses Dean’s shoulder.

“Hey! Jesus, I stink worse than a sewer rat.”

“You sure do.” Sam holds more tightly. “Just need to feel you, brother.”

Relenting, Dean rests his head on a wide shoulder. Man, he’s so tired. The adrenaline’s wearing off fast, and he knows he’s going to crash really soon. “Come on. Take me home.” He lifts up his head before he can fall asleep, right there. “And then we need to find Dad.”

“Oh, Christ… He’ll have to be told. We have to tell him how he’s been played. Man, I wish there was a way we didn’t have to – he won’t accept it easily.”

“I know. But, Sam? In the meantime, let’s get out of here.”

Sam unwinds himself, helps Dean to dress in jeans and shirt. Sam carries the boots, his other hand loose around Dean’s shoulders, for comfort as much as support. At the door they retrieve Sam’s pack, and Dean drinks Gatorade as if it’s nectar. Then, together, they walk out into the morning.

Fin XI


End file.
